The Closers

by Michael Connelly

  "Let's hope so."

  After Bosch hung up he realized that until Mackey or Burkhart left the house on Mariano there would be double surveillance on the place. It was a waste of time and money but he didn't see any way around it. There was no telling when one of the surveillance subjects might take off from the house. They knew very little about Burkhart. They didn't even know if he had a job.

  He next called Renner in the sound room at ListenTech. He was the oldest detective on the squad and had used seniority to get him and his partner the day shift in the sound room.

  "Anything yet?" Bosch asked him.

  "Not yet, but you'll be the first to know."

  Bosch thanked him and hung up. He checked his watch. It wasn't even seven-thirty and he knew it was going to be a long day waiting for his surveillance shift to begin. He refilled his coffee mug and looked at the paper again. The photo of the dead girl's bedroom bothered him in a way he could not pinpoint. There was something there but he could not pull it out. He closed his eyes for a five count and then brought them open, hoping the trick would jar something loose. But the photo did not reveal the secret. A sense of frustration started to rise in him but then the phone rang.

  It was Rider.

  "Great, now I can't go back to sleep. You better be bright-eyed tonight, Harry, because I won't be."

  "Sorry, Kiz. I will."

  "Read me the story."

  He did, and when he was finished she seemed to have caught some of his excitement. They both knew that the story would play perfectly into provoking a response from Mackey. The key would be to make sure that he saw it and read it, and they thought they had that covered.

  "Okay, Harry, I'm going to get going. I have some things to do today."

  "All right, Kiz, see you up there. How 'bout we meet at quarter to six on Tampa about a block south of the service station?"

  "I'll be there unless something happens before."

  "Yeah, me too."

  After hanging up, Bosch went into his bedroom and changed into fresh clothes that would be comfortable during an all-night surveillance and useful as well for the play he intended for Mackey. He chose a white T-shirt that had been washed many times and had shrunk so that its sleeves were tight and short on his biceps. Before putting on a shirt over it he checked his look in the mirror. A full half of the skull was exposed and the SS bolts pointed up above the cotton on his neck.

  The tattoos looked more authentic than they had the night before. He had taken a shower at Vicki Landreth's and she told him that the water would slightly blur the ink on his skin as was the case with most prison-applied tattoos. She warned him that the ink would start to wash away after two or three showers and, if needed, she could maintain his look with further applications. He told her he wasn't planning on needing the tattoos more than one day. They would work or not work when he made his play.

  He put on a long-sleeved button-down shirt over the T-shirt. He checked this in the mirror and thought he could see details of the skull tattoo bleeding through the cotton. The thick black swastika on the crown was coming through.

  Ready to go but with hours before he was needed, Bosch paced nervously around his living room for a few moments, wondering what to do. He decided to call his daughter, hoping that her sweet voice and cheerfulness would give him an added charge for the day.

  He got the number for the Intercontinental Hotel in Kowloon off the Post-it on his refrigerator and punched it into his phone. It would be almost 8 p.m. there. His daughter should still be awake. But when his call was connected to Eleanor Wish's room there was no answer. He wondered if he had the time change wrong. Maybe he was calling too early or too late.

  After six rings an answering service picked up, giving Bosch instructions in English and Cantonese in how to leave a message. He left a short message for both Eleanor and his daughter and hung up the phone.

  Now not wanting to dwell on his daughter or thoughts about where she was, Bosch opened the murder book and began reviewing its contents again, always looking for details of the case he had possibly missed. Despite everything he had learned about the case and how it was pushed off track by the powers that be, he still believed in the book. He believed the answers to the mysteries were always found in the details.

  He finished a read-through and was going to take up the copy of Mackey's probation file when he thought of something and called Muriel Verloren. She was at home.

  "Did you see the story in the paper?" he asked.

  "Yes, it makes me feel so sad to see that."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because it makes it all real to me. I had pushed it away."

  "I'm sorry but it is going to help us. I promise. I'm glad you did it. Thank you."

  "Whatever will help I want to do."

  "Thank you, Muriel. Listen, I wanted to tell you that I located your husband. I spoke to him yesterday morning."

  There was a long silence before she spoke.

  "Really? Where is he?"

  "Down on Fifth Street. He runs a soup kitchen for the homeless. He serves breakfast to them. It's called the Metro Shelter. I thought you might want to know."

  Again a silence. Bosch guessed she wanted to ask him questions and he was willing to wait.

  "You mean he works there?"

  "Yes. He's sober now. He said it's been three years. I guess he first went there for a meal and he's sort of worked his way up. He runs the kitchen now. And it's good food. I ate there yesterday."

  "I see."

  "Um, I have a number that he gave me. It's not a direct line. He doesn't have a phone in his room. But it's in the kitchen and he's there in the mornings. He said it slows down after about nine."

  "Okay."

  "Do you want the number, Muriel?"

  This question was followed by the longest silence of all. Bosch finally answered the question himself.

  "I'll tell you what, Muriel. I've got the number, and if you ever want it you can just call me. Is that okay?"

  "That would be fine, Detective. Thank you."

  "No problem. I'm going to go now. We're hoping something breaks on the case today."

  "Please call me."

  "It will be the first call I make."

  After hanging up, Bosch realized that talking about breakfast had made him hungry. It was now almost noon and he hadn't eaten anything since the steak at Musso's the night before. He decided that he would go into the bedroom and rest for a while and then have a late lunch before reporting for the surveillance. He would go over to Dupar's in Studio City. It was on the way out to Northridge. Pancakes were the perfect surveillance food. He would order a full stack of buttered pancakes and they would sit in his stomach like clay and keep him full all night if necessary.

  In the bedroom he lay on his back and shut his eyes. He tried to think of the case but his mind wandered to the drunken time he got the tattoo put on his arm in a dirty studio in Saigon. As he drifted off to sleep he remembered the man with the needle and his smile and his body odor. He remembered the man had said, "Are you sure? Remember, you'll be marked forever with this."

  Bosch had smiled back and said, "I already am."

  Then in his dream the man's smiling face turned into Vicki Landreth's face. She had red lipstick smeared across her mouth. She held up a buzzing tattoo needle.

  She said, "Are you ready, Michael?"

  He said, "I'm not Michael."

  She said, "It's all right. It doesn't matter who you are. Everybody's dodging the needle. But nobody gets away."

  28

  KIZ RIDER WAS already at the meeting spot when Bosch got there. He got out of his car and brought the murder book and the other files to her car, a nondescript white Taurus.

  "You have any room in your trunk?" he asked before getting in.

  "It's empty. Why?"

  "Pop it. I forgot to leave my spare tire at home."

  He went back to his car, a Mercedes-Benz SUV, and took the spare tire out of the back and transferred it t
o Rider's trunk. Using a screwdriver from the tool kit he removed the license plates from his car and put them in the trunk as well. He then got in with her and they drove up Tampa to the plaza shopping center across from the service station where Mackey worked. The day team, Marcia and Jackson, were waiting in their car in the lot.

  The space next to them was open and Rider pulled in. Everybody put down their windows so they could talk and transfer the two rovers without having to get out of their cars. Bosch took the radios but knew he and Rider wouldn't use them.

  "Well?" Bosch asked.

  "Well, nothing," Jackson said. "Seems like we're pumping a dry hole here, Harry."

  "Nothing at all?" Rider asked.

  "There has been absolutely no indication at all that he's seen the paper or that anybody he knows has seen it. We checked with the sound room twenty minutes ago and this guy hasn't even gotten a phone call, let alone one about this. He hasn't even had a tow call since he came on."

  Bosch nodded. He wasn't concerned yet. Sometimes things needed a little push and that was what he was ready to do.

  "I hope you've got a good plan, Harry," Marcia called over. He was in the driver's side of their car and Bosch was furthest away on the passenger side of Rider's car.

  "You want to stick around?" Bosch replied. "No use waiting on it if there hasn't been any action. I'm ready to go."

  Jackson nodded.

  "I don't mind," he said. "You going to need backup?"

  "I doubt it. I'm just going to plant a seed. But you never know. It couldn't hurt."

  "All right. We'll watch anyway. Just in case, what's your flare going to be?"

  Bosch hadn't thought about how he would send up a flare if things went wrong and he had to call in backup.

  "I guess I'll hit the horn," he said. "Or you'll hear the shots."

  He smiled and everybody nodded and then Rider backed out of the space and they headed back down Tampa to his car.

  "You sure about this?" Rider asked as she pulled in next to the Mercedes.

  "I'm sure."

  He had noticed on the way over that she had brought an accordion file with her. It was on the armrest between the seats.

  "What's this?"

  "Since you woke me up early I decided to go to work. I traced down the other five members of the Chatsworth Eights."

  "Great work. Any of them still local?"

  "Two of them are still around. But it looks like they have grown out of their so-called youthful indiscretions. No records. They've got pretty decent jobs."

  "What about the others?"

  "The only one that still seems like he's a believer in the cause is a guy named Frank Simmons. Moved down here from Oregon when he was in high school. A couple years later he joins the Eights. He now lives in Fresno. But he did a two-year bit in Obispo for selling machine guns."

  "I might be able to use that. When was he there?"

  "Hold on a second."

  She opened her file and dug through it until she came up with a slim manila folder with the name Frank Simmons on it. She opened it and showed Bosch a prison mug shot of Simmons.

  "Six years ago," she said. "He got out six years ago."

  Bosch studied the photo, committing the details of Simmons's look to memory. He had dark short hair and dark eyes. His skin was very pale and his face was tracked with acne scars. He tried to cover these with a goatee that would also make him look tougher.

  "Where was the case, here?" he asked.

  "No, actually, it was from Fresno. He apparently moved up there after the troubles down here."

  "Who was he selling the machine guns to?"

  "I called the FBI office up there, talked to the agent. He didn't want to cooperate with me until he checked me out. I'm still waiting for the callback."

  "Great."

  "I got the feeling that Mr. Simmons is still of active interest to the bureau up there and the agent wasn't into sharing."

  Bosch nodded.

  "Where was Simmons living at the time of the Verloren thing?"

  "Can't tell. He was one of the younger ones, so he was probably living with his parents. AutoTrack doesn't trace him back further than 'ninety. By then he was in Fresno."

  "So unless his parents moved out after this thing, he was probably right there in the Valley."

  "It's possible."

  "Okay, this is good, Kiz. I might be able to use some of this. Follow me over to the top of Balboa Park by Woodley. I think that's a good spot. There's a golf course there with a parking lot. There will be a lot of cars. You guys will be able to park there and it will be good cover. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Tell the other guys."

  He took out his badge wallet, his cuffs and his service pistol and put them all down on the floor of the car.

  "Harry, you got a backup?"

  "I've got you, right?"

  "I mean it."

  "Yes, Kiz, I've got a little popper on my ankle. I'll be all right."

  He got out and got into his own car. On the drive over to the park he rehearsed the play in his mind. He got ready and got excited.

  Ten minutes later he pulled over onto the shoulder of the park road, killed the engine and got out. He went to the right front side of the car and let the air out of the tire through the valve. Because he knew some tow trucks come equipped with compressed air, he opened his pocket knife and slashed open the stem of the tire's valve. The tire would have to be repaired, not refilled.

  Ready to go, he opened his cell phone and called the service station where Mackey worked. He said he needed a tow and was put on hold. A whole minute went by before another voice came on the line. Roland Mackey.

  "What do you need?"

  "I need a tow. I got a flat and the valve looks like it's fucked up."

  "What kind of car is it?"

  "Black Mercedes SUV."

  "What about the spare?"

  "It got stolen by some ni-it was stolen when I was in South-Central last week."

  "That's too bad. Shouldn't go down there."

  "I had no choice. Can you tow me or not?"

  "Okay, okay. Where are you?"

  Bosch told him. It was close enough that this time Mackey didn't try to talk him into calling someone else.

  "All right, ten minutes," Mackey said. "Be there with your car when I get there."

  "I've got nowhere else to go."

  Bosch closed the phone and opened the back of the SUV. He pulled his outer shirt out of his pants and then took it off. He put it in the back. His new tattoos were now partially displayed. He sat down on the tailgate and waited. Two minutes later his cell phone chirped. It was Rider.

  "Harry, they were able to pipe the call over to me from ListenTech. You sounded legit."

  "Good."

  "I just talked to the guys. Mackey's moving. They're with him."

  "Okay, I'm ready."

  "I kind of wish now we had gotten you a body wire. You never know what this guy is going to say to you."

  "Too risky in just a T-shirt. Besides, the chances of the guy telling a stranger he was the one who killed the girl in the newspaper story are probably longer than me winning the lotto without buying a ticket."

  "I guess."

  "I gotta go, Kiz."

  "Good luck, Harry. Be careful."

  "All the time."

  He closed the phone.

  29

  THE TOW TRUCK SLOWED as it approached the Mercedes. Bosch looked up from the rear hatch, where he was sitting below the shade of the overhead door and reading the Daily News. He waved the paper at the tow truck driver and stood up. The truck drove by and then onto the shoulder in front of the Mercedes. It then backed up to within five feet of it. Its driver got out. It was Roland Mackey.

  Mackey was wearing leather gloves that were grease-stained dark in the palms. Rather than acknowledge Bosch, he walked around the front of the Mercedes and looked down at the flattened tire. As Bosch came around, still holding the paper, Mackey squat
ted down and looked at the tire's valve. He reached out and bent it back and forth, exposing the slice that had been cut into it.

  "Almost looks like it was cut," Mackey said.

  "Maybe glass in the road or something," Bosch offered.

  "And no spare. Ain't that a bitch?"